


Can't let you be gone

by ravenditefairylights



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Maglor is tired, Turgon does not like the feanorians, and sad, before the burning at Losgar, but slightly hopeful, everybody is sad, fingon through the passing of helcaraxe, im sorry, reflecting on maedhros and their relationship, this is angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 11:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13145355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenditefairylights/pseuds/ravenditefairylights
Summary: "Maitimo hadn't betrayed him. Maitimo hadn't abandoned him. So Fingon wouldn't abandon him either."A very angsty, slightly hopeful one-shot about the aftermath of the burning of the ships at Losgar, featuring everyone's favourite elves.





	Can't let you be gone

**Author's Note:**

> It's angsty and very long and the title is shitty but whatever. Enjoy some pain from me and please review to let me know what you think. The names are mingled Sindar and Quenya, even though they probably didn't have their Quenya names then.

_Maitimo could not have betrayed him._

It was only one sentence, barely five words long, but it kept repeating itself in Fingon's head in something almost like a litany. It was the only thought that could retain Fingon's attention for more than a few minutes.

It shouldn't be, he knew that. He should be angry at the redhead son of Fëanor for abandoning him, for betraying him like this, but Fingon couldn't do that.

Another elf fell down on the icy terrain under them while his companions rushed to help him up and Fingon turned his eyes away. Wherever he turned his eyes the only color that existed was white, so bright that it hurt Fingon's eyes at first, but after a while he grew used to it.

He forced his feet to go faster against the hollowing wind, keeping a pace closer to Argon who was just a few feet in front of him. The wind stung, the cold waves like whips on his face, and Fingon was shivering despite the five layers of clothing he was wearing.

The cold was the worst of all. Fingon was certain that if he ever made it alive out of here his fingers would be tinged with the blue frost for the remaining of his days. The freezing temperature, in combination with the whipping wind sent a chill into his bones. They had already lost to many people, more than Fingon would like to count, his brother's wife amongst them. Beautiful and cheerful Elenwë had been buried under the tons of snow, leaving his brother heartbroken and her daughter to grow up without a mother. Little Idril was barely twenty years old, too small to fully understand what was happening.

He had tried to stop counting the dead after that, stop feeling because every time he thought about it, it was like an iron hand closing around his heart. A few years ago, he would have laughed at anyone who told him what was waiting for him in the future.

_Maitimo would never betray him._

He was still trying to cling to that. His brothers had squeezed his shoulders when the light of the burning ships shone at the coast of Losgar, and Irissë had shot him a pitying look when he had shaken his head in denial -he was still shaking it in confusion hours after, trying and failing - _refusing_ \- to grasp his head around what had happened.

His father had given him a sorrowful look mingled with pity when Fingon insisted that Maitimo would have never betrayed him.

Fingolfin did not believe him.

Fingon was not sure he believed himself either, but there was something very insulting in the thought that Maitimo could have ever sold him out like this. It did not sit well with him and yet...

Fingon shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts that were threatening to follow. Maitimo did not, _could not_ have betrayed him. The thought offered little comfort, he it was the only thing Fingon had to cling to. He had to, or else he would lose what little sanity he had left.

In front of him Argon called for help standing over another fallen elf and Fingon dragged himself there, forcing all the thoughts out of his head.

_Don't think. Just help_. Thoughts were treacherous things, twisting around almost with a will of their own, telling him things Fingon did not want to believe, and he was left fighting a useless battle with himself. _Don't think._

* * *

When they reached the tents at Uncle Fëanor's camp, the only one waiting to greet them was Makalaurë.

He looked so different than the last time Fingon had seen him, but then again, so did he. His cousin looked exhausted, his appearance was one Fingon would attribute to someone who hadn't slept in a week, and the creasing lines in his forehead and under his eyes made him look older than he actually was.

"Where is Fëanáro?" Fingolfin demanded before before Makalaurë could properly adress them. The dark-haired elf closed his mouth, shallowed and then opened it again to speak.

_"Atar_ is dead."

The answer took all of them by surprise, and Fingon though he saw Fingolfin's eyes water for just a second.

Makalaurë's voice was flat, devoid of all emotion, and Fingon knew that his cousin was trying hard to bury his grief under the unreadable mask his face had become. The only thing that gave him away were the tears glistering in the pools of his eyes, but Makalaurë forced them back as soon as they became apparent.

"My brothers are around somewhere, please make yourselves comfortable." He gestured towards the tent, and waited for all of them to sit before offering them a drink, which they all declined. In all truth, Fingon would have accepted, but Turgon hastily declined for all of them rather rudely.

"What happened to him?" Fingolfin asked, referring to his half-brother. Makalaurë shrugged, trying to be nonchalant about it, but he would not meet anyone's eyes.

"Balrogs." He said but he did not elaborate. Fingon found himself looking around the tent before he realized what he was doing, and with a small pang in his heart he realized that he had unconsciously been searching for Maitimo. He honestly did not know what he was feeling, he wanted to see Maitimo again and simultaneously he wanted to never see him again, and why did everything had to be so complicated?

Turgon, ever the one ready to defend his siblings, -at times acting like their oldest brother more than Fingon himself- was the only one who noticed and guessed what, or better yet _who_ Fingon was searching for and his eyes darkened.

"Where is your brother?" He demanded suddenly, cutting off whatever Makalaurë had been saying. His cousin's voice faltered, and then he blinked once.

"What?"

"Maitimo, where is he? Is the High King too proud and mighty to come and greet his kin himself?" The words were spat, with an edge to them like venom and Makalurë flinched.

It took Fingon a moment to process what his brother had said, but then the realization settled in and his heart sunk. Of course, if Uncle Fëanor had been killed, Maitimo would take his place as the High King. Makalaurë looked pained beyond words at the mention of his brother's name, and Fingon's chest tightened ever so slightly.

"He's not here." He whispered, and his voice was thick with so much emotion in contrast with his previous demeanor that Fingon was certain he did not want to know where Maitimo was. "He has been... captured." The words hung in the air, their implications too grave and horrible to be considered.

"Captured?" Irissë was the first of them to find her voice, Fingon did not think he could have said anything, he was too busy forcing back the lump in his throat. "By Morgoth?"

The grimace of pain in Makalaurë's face was confirmation enough and Fingon felt the familiar iron hand close around his heart and the sentiment of denial settle in again.

"Morgoth has offered a trade, but it is nothing but an empty promise and we know not what to do..." Makalaurë looked like the thought that they were helpless to save their oldest brother was causing him physical pain, and Fingon could relate with the feeling. The son of Fëanor drew in one shaky breath and then composed himself, the blank mask falling once again over his features. He raised his head and looked directly into Turgon's eyes as he spoke.

"My brother has not taken on the title of the High King." He stated, eyes burning and daring him to say anything. "I will see that you and all your people are provided with everything you need."

"That would defeat the whole purpose of the incident at Losgar, would it not?" Turgon's voice was laced with bitterness and anger and Makalaurë flinched again, but he looked as if he had been expecting that particular comment.

_"Atar_ was not thinking clearly then." Was the only defense he offered, turning his head away.

Fingon was halfway towards the door when Makalaurë's voice stopped him.

"Fingon." He said, lifting his head as the son of Fingolfin turned to look at him. "I though you should know, that Maitimo never betrayed you." Fingon's heart lifted in his chest, but he forced his face to remain passive. "He stood away from the whole thing, running towards the shore only when-" He broke off suddenly, fighting the tears gathering in his eyes and chocking back a sob. "Only when we realized that Amrod was still inside his ship." Fingon's eyes widened in horror and behind him Irissë drew in a sharp breath. "If- if you cannot forgive us, at least _please_ forgive him." Makalaurë was as close to begging as he would ever get, and Fingon nodded.

As Fingolfin and his children made their way from the camp of the sons of Fëanor, the happiness of Makalaurë's revelation gave way to steely determination.

Maitimo hadn't betrayed him. Maitimo hadn't abandoned him.

So Fingon wouldn't abandon him either.

**Author's Note:**

> Quenya names:  
> Maitimo= Maedhros  
> Makalaurë= Maglor  
> Fëanáro= Fëanor  
> Irissë= Aredhel
> 
> Quenya Translations:  
> atar= father


End file.
